The Hard Way To Heaven
by thedoctorwillsaveyou
Summary: Finnick never expected to go to Heaven. Maybe it was all the killing in the Hunger Games, or the rebel cause. So when he approached the looming golden gates, watching over him and the rest of the world, he was confused. Not too angsty Finnick oneshot.


Finnick had never thought much of heaven. He never believed he would enjoy it, being so far from the sea atmosphere he had grown up with in District 4, and he certainly never imagined that he'd be going there so young, after becoming a victor. The whole point of winning was so that you were never faced with the prospect of death until a ripe old age, after being inches away from it during the Games.

He probably should've thought that he wouldn't be going to Heaven at all, killing all the other tributes, though it was necessary. That moment you turn deadly, when you choose your life above anyone else's, when you lose feeling about murdering someone, when you shoot to kill. That's when you seal your fate with Hell. And there's no way you can change fate.

So when he approached the huge golden gates, looming above him, watching over the him and the entire world, he was confused. They looked somewhat welcoming, somewhat intimidating, as if trying to the godly interior designer had to capture the essence and power of God himself. Finnick started to laugh, maniacally, maddeningly—he'd made it, he wasn't going to suffer eternal damnation—and didn't stop when a figure in light clothing approached him.

"What seems to be so funny, boy?" The man eyed Finnick, as clearly this had never happened before—hysterical tears of happiness, plenty, but this?

Finnick slowly regained composure-all he had left, that is. "Well, mister, these gates mean I'm in heaven, don't they? That means you"—he made a gesture to the man—"must be Saint Peter. Never imagined meeting you, is all. Strange how things turn out in the end, isn't it?"

The man, or saint, raised his eyebrows. "You expected to go to Hell, did you? And why ever would that be?"

Finnick shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to go on. "Nothing, sir. Just underestimated myself. Uhm, I have a small request to ask of you, you being a saint and all. You wouldn't happen to know what the current situation in Panem is, would you? I mean, could you check?"

"Panem? There have been quite a few deaths in that area, to say the least. A huge amount of traffic, which took ages to sort out. There's been a war on, so I've heard. So which side were you on?" He waits expectantly.

"Me? Well, sir, whichever side you supported." Finnick gave a steady grin, with just the slightest hint of cheekiness.

"The rebels won. President Snow's execution was supposed to be by the hand of none other than Katniss Everdeen, but it wasn't exactly what she had in mind. She ended up murdering President Coin, with Snow suffering death my rampaging rebel crowd. Everdeen was lucky—she was deemed mentally unstable at her trial, after the death of her sister. And yours too, probably. She went through a lot. Still not in a completely sane state. I suspect it will be a while before she gets completely right in the head."

Finnick stares into the darkness. So dear Katniss lost her mind too, in the end. But she'd sacrificed a lot more than her head-her best friend, her little sister, her fellow rebels, and her beautiful, nightmare-free nights.

Saint Peter studied Finnick, assessing him, judging him, a silent figure radiating such power that even the noise around him cowered into silence. His robes flowed around him, as if a gentle breeze swayed them, but Finnick was sure not touch of wind had graced his skin. He waited patiently, waiting for the verdict.

"You were a rebel, weren't you?"

Finnick nodded slowly.

"I thought so. You are noble. Dying for a cause is not something I see often. You have qualities: loyalty, ambition, intelligence." The saint touches his cheek thoughtfully, giving him a second lookover.

"Thank you, sir." Finnick added, then recoiled back into his little seashell of respecting silence.

But perhaps silence was not the best for Finnick. Silence meant thoughts, and thoughts meant Annie. He wondered where she was, what she was doing, who she was with. No doubt she'd gone back to District 4, but who was waiting for her there? It was just her and him. Him and her. And now he'd left her. Finnick hanged his head even lower in shame. She was still confused probably. Waiting for him. Not yet processed the news that her husband wouldn't be coming home. That he would never see his son. His beautiful son, who didn't deserve living without a father.

He wondered who broke the news. Katniss? No. Haymitch? No. He hoped it had been Peeta. Peeta had a gentle way with words, forming them into the perfect key to unlock anybody's heart, and gently placing the parcel of information inside, leaving you to decide when to open it. To accept it. Katniss and Haymitch, however, would probably drop the parcel right through the chimney.

"Son?" The saint's voice startled Finnick back into reality. Or perhaps not reality. _His_ reality.

"You've been accepted. You can go in. The whole of Heaven's waiting for you, but I suppose you don't have to rush. You've got the rest of eternity." Saint Peter looked at Finnick sympathetically, as if he knew exactly what—_who_—he was thinking about.

"Sir?" Finnick's confident voice wavered. "It's a strange request, but is there a way I can watch Panem?"

"There is." Saint forward and put his hand on Finnick's shoulder, looking him squarely in the eye. "Finnick, I know about Annie. Don't look. You'll only bring more sadness onto yourself. The thing is, Heaven is great, but going through it alone isn't. Wait. Eventually they both will join you. Don't torture yourself."

Finnick looked up, tears in his eyes, his floppy brown hair in waves. Saint Peter expected him to say something, but Finnick just nodded.

"Go in, son." The saint gently nudged Finnick in the direction of the majestic gates.

Finnick took a few steps forward. Eyes on the ground.

He looked back, and took one last glance at Saint Peter. Then he turned around, chin up.

Walked slowly into the gates, transforming into a miniscule dot, the final blot of ink on a page.

Not once looking back.


End file.
